


Imagine Loki - Right of First Night

by Tomstinkerbell



Category: Loki (Marvel) - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: D/s, Dom!Loki, Dominant Elements, Dominant Loki, F/M, Forced Nudity, Kidnapping, Submissive Elements, Threats, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomstinkerbell/pseuds/Tomstinkerbell
Summary: The title kinda says it all, really





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story idea I’ve had for quite some time. I don’t really like how it’s come out, but I wanted to get it out there.
> 
> Trigger warning: Non-con, although they don’t really get to that point in this chapter, kidnapping.
> 
> This story contains: Non-con elements, Dom!Loki, Dominant Loki, D/s elements, Dominant elements, Kidnapping, Submissive elements, forced nudity, threats

[](http://s1008.photobucket.com/user/phillyloo/media/hidd_loki_zpsntqi9fxc.jpg.html)

Imagine if, as King, Loki claimed the Right of First Night ( _droit du seigneur, primae noctis_ ) at your wedding. 

You are a very innocently raised young girl, just barely of marriageable age in your area. You have been very sheltered by your parents from anything of any kind of sexual origin, in an atmosphere of extreme modesty. You have never been completely naked in your life – you even bathe with clothes on. You’ve certainly never been permitted to kiss a boy – your first time will be as man and wife – or even just date one or be alone with one. Your parents even chose your husband for you, who is a guy who’s about eighteen, that you’ve known all your life. 

Just as the priest you’re standing in front of pronounces that you are man and wife – but before you can kiss - King Loki appears in full armor to announce to everyone’s shock and dismay that he is invoking his right to take your virginity, and that you will spend the night with him. Before you – or anyone else - can say or do anything, he takes your hand – the one without the bouquet but with your new wedding ring on it – and you both disappear.

The ring, however, is left behind you in the dirt.

You end up in what you think is probably his lavish bedroom at the palace, although you don’t know, since he could have brought you anywhere.

His helmet disappears as he strides towards you, his hand out, a lustful, devilish look in his eye, saying something to the effect that he couldn’t bear the idea that some callow, untried youth would be able to touch you for the first time the way a man touches a woman who is his - that your king will make it better for you than your new husband ever could.

But before his hand comes in contact with you, you drop to your knees, pressing your forehead to the toe of his boot in supplication, begging him to bring you back to your wedding feast untouched and unharmed.

Reaching down to take a hold of your arms and raise you to your feet again, his deep voice rumbles through your brain and echoes through the room, saying, his lips curved into a sly, knowing smile, that he doesn’t intend to harm you, unless you are naughty . . . although you will hardly remained untouched, regardless of how you behave. 

You try to pull away and manage to put the length of your arms between you, and although he’s not hurting you by holding you, he’s not letting you go, either, and, to your horror, your beautiful wedding dress – and all of the new, frilly underthings that were made for your new husband to see on your wedding night – melts away from you, leaving you naked as well as captive. He’s holding your arms so you can’t even cover yourself, but when he sees you, he surprises you by letting go – entranced by your perfection.

Shocked and horrified at having been so exposed to him, you automatically adopt a virginal posture – one arm across your breasts, one at your womanhood, trying to shield yourself from his voracious eyes.

He takes a tour around you, as if he’s inspecting a particularly interesting piece of art he’s just acquired, or worse, a beautiful animal, and, when he moves behind you, you want to cover your bottom, too, but you don’t have enough hands to do so. You can feel his eyes on you as if they were hands, touching you everywhere at once.

Before he makes it back to where he’d started, you bolt for the door.

He neither says nor does anything to stop you – he doesn’t have to. As a matter of fact, you can’t see it, but he actually walks away from you to another part of the room. You can’t open the door, although you throw yourself at it and claw at it, breaking fingernails and causing bruises in your effort to get away from him.

He appears suddenly behind you, saying, “Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”

You’re facing away from him, and don’t turn around.

His voice is surprisingly quiet but firm, sounding truly regretful when he asks, “Would you ignore your King’s command, my flower? I _am_ surprised. I thought your parents were loyal to the crown and therefore they would have raised you to _respect_ and _obey_ your ruler.”

With a defeated sigh, shoulders slumping, you put your hand back, reaching for the drink, but it’s not there.

“Forgive me, but I am not used to my subjects giving me their backs, however lovely.”

He is surprisingly patient while you come to grips with the fact that you really have no choice but to do as he says, and you suspect that he’s thoroughly enjoying your struggle to submit to him.

Slowly - excruciatingly slowly - as your body blushes hotter and hotter - you turn around, keeping your back up against the door, your hands – at first - splayed by your hips, then covering yourself again, however uselessly, as he presents a stunning golden goblet to you.

You accept it with a trembling hand – leaving your breasts bare to his ravenous gaze - taking a small sip, then trying to hand it back to him.

“No, my beauty, drink all of it.”

You’ve never had wine before - you think that this is what this is, although it could be anything - but your eyes dart to his for just a second – noting that he looks quite implacable – then back to the floor again before you do as he has ordered and down the contents. The bruises on your shoulders disappear immediately, your broken nails and bleeding fingertips healing at the same time, but you feel nothing else from it at the moment.

As soon as you finish, the chalice disappears, and you quickly put your hand back over your chest.

And then he takes a step toward you. He’s so big – towering over you – he makes you feel completely and utterly defenseless.

You’re shaking so hard that you think you’re just going to fall apart in front of him, watching – almost hypnotized - as those big boots move even closer, so that the two of you are almost touching, but not quite.

The smell of him surrounds you – leather first, accompanied by some kind of cologne that is the best scent you’ve ever smelled on any man – although you don’t want to acknowledge that you’ve noticed that - along with what your inexperienced, already overwhelmed body recognizes as a large dose of unbridled masculinity, and your ragged breathing just means that your head fills with more and more of it as he stands there, so that it almost becomes a part of you, too.

Then, you hear the soft creak of leather and you know that he’s going to touch you, but you’re still diligently staring at his feet so you have no idea where.

You’re startled when one long finger merely curls beneath your chin, forcing you to look up at him - it’s his words that heighten your fear to epic proportions, knowing, somehow, at the same time, that he’s enjoying that, too.

“I am going to make you _scream_ tonight, my pretty one,” he leans down to purr menacingly against your cheek, his breath hot against your skin, “either with pleasure or pain – or perhaps both. I promise you that, and your King _always_ keeps his promises. And, if you are as innocent – and deliciously _tight_ – as I think you are, I may _never_ let you go . . .”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if there's going to be any more of this, but here's a second chapter.
> 
> Trigger warning: This chapter contains non-consensual elements, kidnapping, forced nudity, threats, and spanking. Subsequent chapters, should there be any, will likely contain: non-consensual sex/rape
> 
> This story might contain, now or in the future: Non-consensual sex/rape, forced orgasm, Dom!Loki, Dominant Loki, D/s elements, Dominant elements, Kidnapping, Submissive elements, forced nudity, threats, spanking, and is definitely NSFW.

Loki leans forward again to order huskily, “Hands above your head.”

When you just stand there for a long moment, horrified at his demand and fidgeting nervously against it under his intent gaze, he cautions casually, almost sounding sympathetic to your plight – although you are certain it is a mock sympathy, “I could, of course, just magic them there, but it is so much more potent a lesson for you - and so much more satisfying and entertaining for me - if you have to find a way to do it yourself, don’t you think? That would be much more of a demonstration of your true submission to your Lord and Master.”

He cocks his head at you, chin lowered, looking sternly down at you. “Eventually, of course, I _will_ remove the choice from you, one way or the other, but not now. However, I do suggest you think very carefully before defying me, lovely. I shall not now – nor will I ever in the future – hesitate to correct your naughtiness by treating you, not as a beautiful young woman - a bride on the brink of her wedding night – but rather in a manner more befitting your naughty behavior. I shall take you over my knee or my lap like a spoiled five year old and spank that perfect little bottom of yours.”

He pauses for a moment, asking a question that surprises you into answer him. “Did your parents spank you?”

“No! They never laid a hand on me.”

Loki tsks loudly. “No wonder you’re so badly behaved. I can see I’ll have my work cut out for me, teaching you to obey your betters.”

In a terror fueled burst of spirit, you hiss back at him, “You’re not better than me - you’re the Devil incarnate!”

You’re well aware that you might well pay the ultimate price for your audacity in speaking to him like that, but, when you dare to peek up at him, you find he’s wearing a huge, unrepentant – more than a bit proud - smile. 

“Abso _lutely_ , my darling – and I’ll never give you cause to doubt it.”

Then, in a split second, your mercurial captor’s mood changes, and he snaps loudly, threateningly, his nose practically pressed to yours, “Where did your King say your hands should be, little girl?”

You jump at his menacing tone and, almost of their own accord, your hands begin to move, as slowly as you dare – first the one across your breasts, then the one protecting your privates begins to creep up, until they’re both over your head.

He smiles when they’re where he wants them. “There now. Was that so hard?”

Somehow, you’ve managed not to cry up to this point - until he reaches his hand out slowly, knowing you’re watching it as if it’s a viper coming at you with its fangs bared, trying to cringe away but there’s nowhere to go. His eyes are on your face as he aims for a breast originally, but then diverts at the last minute to your hair instead, reaching to pull out all the pins that held it up in the elaborate do your cousin had spent hours on for your wedding. 

“Much better,” he says, artfully arranging the wavy locks that come down past your bottom because they have never been cut. “Do not wear it up in front of me again.”

You’ve held the tears at bay until he touches even just that generic part you – until he begins to weave his fingers through your hair, using them to comb it out. He’s not even touching you intimately – yet – but it’s still too much for you, as if you managed not to weep because you were desperately hoping that this was some kind of nightmare you were going to wake up from, long before it got to this point.

But the feeling has sunk in that there won’t be a knight in shining armor galloping in to save you from him – no one could. This man – this God - is ruler of all he surveys – and that includes you. You are at his mercy, and you would be willing to bet that he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

You again begin to feel as if you’re a horse at auction, or a slave on the block, as he seems not only to be touching you, but inspecting you, too. What he’ll do if he finds you unacceptable in any way isn’t something you want to contemplate.

He’s not hurting you, either, though, and you perversely wish he would. You think you might prefer that – that it might be easier for you to tolerate, somehow - if he was causing you terrible pain, rather than bestowing gentle touches with his fingertips here and there, tucking some of the hair that’s falling into your face – because you’re staring diligently at the floor - behind your ears so he can see your expression, tracing your brows, over your hot, flushed cheeks, lingering gently on your lips.

Then he removes his hands altogether. 

“So – are you as innocent as you seem, I wonder?” he asks, his tone letting you know that he severely doubts it. “How many men have been _here_ before me?” To emphasize his point, he boldly reaches out and cups you _there_ , long cool fingers delving between legs you’ve been clamping together since you were stopped by the locked door when you made a run for it, making you squeal and jump at the same time, desperate to keep him away from you, but no amount of your own puny strength in that area is going to save you, either. 

Thus, there is no way you can’t help yourself from trying to prevent him claiming more and more of you – in a more benign manner than he might but you have no knowledge of that yet – your hands come down to grab a hold of his wrist. You realize the magnitude of the mistake you’ve made in doing so the moment your fingers try – and fail - to close around the large muscles of his immovable forearm, pulling futilely at it at the same time without budging him so much as a millimeter. 

But there’s no way to undo what you’ve done, and your heart begins to beat heavily in your chest and throat – as if they’re the only things there – as you wonder in utter terror if he’ll go through with his threat – both horrified and terrified to realize that you’re somewhat titillated to find out whether he will or not.

And you don’t have to wait long to find out.

Loki doesn’t hesitate to use your grip against you, clamping cruelly down on one hand while twisting the other at the same time - making you have to step away from the door to alleviate the pain – and the only way he will allow you to move is over his knee, which has been conveniently propped up by his big, booted foot on a low stool that you would swear wasn’t there seconds before or you would have tripped on it when you ran towards the door.

You end up literally hanging over his hard, muscled thigh, his heavy arm lying hard across your lower back the only thing that’s saving you from falling all of that long distance to the floor in one direction or the other. You try to reach back to cover your bare, vulerable bottom, but he captures that hand in his, pinning it to the small of your back, rendering you even more helpless than you were before.

“What did I tell you to do with your hands, girl?” he asks in a clipped tone.

Despite the possibility of falling, you’re arching your back and raising your legs and wiggling as best you can, trying to escape your present, horribly defenseless situation, but to no avail.

“P-put th-them above m-my head.”

“And why are you now over my knee, about to get a spanking?” He lays his right hand deliberately over the crest of your bare bottom.

“Ah! No!” It’s not that he’s the first man to ever touch you there – although he certainly is - you can’t be bothered with such trivialities at the moment. It’s the terribly intimate reminder of what’s to come in your very near future that makes you redouble your efforts to loose yourself, but all you’re doing is getting more and more tired while he barely notices your struggles.

Well, he notices them, you’re sure - you can feel those intense, steely eyes on every exposed inch of you - but they don’t hinder him in the least.

Then you remember that your outrage at the way he’s touching you – regardless of your reason - is nothing to him, either, and that he probably expects you to respond to his question. “Be-because I m-moved them d-down.”

The moment you utter the last word in your little coerced confession, the spanking commences.

And he doesn’t just physically chastise you like the child he compared you to, he lectures you, too – like a highly disappointed father or schoolteacher – the entire time he slowly and painfully wallops your behind. 

You, however, are determined not to give him the satisfaction of responding to his assault in any way, clamping your teeth shut as you had your thighs, and you are quite sure that you’ll have much more success keeping your mouth shut than you did keeping him from getting between your legs.

But you are immediately disheartened to realize that you’re not going to be able to manage it - not even for one smack.

It’s as if – when his palm connects with your backside – he’d branded you with his handprint. It stings and burns and you’re very sure your flesh is being seared even after he raises his hand again. It’s all you can do not to fulfill his prophecy and scream. Remaining silent is an absolute impossibility.

Especially as he begins to pop you hard on first one cheek, then the other as he speaks – his voice a deeply disappointed one that you are horrified to realize is actually succeeding in making you feel guilty - quickly covering all of you and applying multiple layers of agonizing pain atop the already unbearable first round.

“I don’t know why, but I expected better behavior from you. It isn’t as if I gave you a complex task. I simply said to keep your hands above you. It can’t be that hard to obey me, can it? And not only did you put them down, you tried to remove my hand from your person. That is a very, very naughty thing to do. You are never to interfere with me touching you, young lady. Even if I’m hurting you at the time, you are not allowed to lay hands on me to stop me. You may beg me – I have a feeling I’d quite like that - you might wheedle and cajole a bit, even, although you may not whinge. But you must never try to move my hands away from you. Am I making myself perfectly clear?” He emphasized each of his last words with a tremendous swat. 

All of the breath has been forcibly expelled from your body since he started, but you know he nevertheless expects you to answer him.

Sobbing wretchedly, you whisper, “Yes, Sir.” You don’t know if that’s the right thing to call him, but it sounds proper to your ears.

And you have a feeling that he’ll tell you if it isn’t.

He landed another hard smack. “Did you say something? I couldn’t hear you. You must always speak up when addressing your King.”

“Yes, Sir!” you almost yell.

“Better, but watch your tone.”

Suddenly, you are free, and he tips you up onto your feet.

You’re wobbly at first, and you instantly reach back with both hands to rub and soothe your bum, shocked to realize just how much heat is radiating from your still sizzling flesh, only to have your hands caught and held there while he delivers another set of impromptu smacks.

“You are not allowed to rub after a punishment. I didn’t just spend my valuable time correcting you so that you could immediately alleviate the sting of it, which is supposed to linger to remind you about what happens when you decide to be willful and disobedient.”

It’s then that you realize that his lectures are almost as devastating to your conscience as the spanking is to your rear end. His stern tone and the words he uses – like “naughty” and “disobedient”, which were ones your parents used when you misbehaved – give you a funny feeling in both the pit of your stomach . . . and also, you’re frightened and ashamed to admit, the very private place that is supposed to be reserved for your husband’s touch only, the one that he’d already come close to despoiling with his fingers.

He makes a motion with his hand and the footstool disappears, and then you find your back pressed to the door again – this time with your thoroughly scourged bum pushed up against it – and your hands reach above your head all on their own as soon as you realize where you are.

Loki smiles at your eager obedience, then looks innocent, tapping his lip. “Now, where were we?” He comes to stand as close in front of you as he had been before. “Oh, I remember - I was _here_ ,” his fingers wiggle their way between your legs again, “when you rudely interrupted me with your naughtiness.”

Your thighs clamp themselves together uncontrollably as your entire body blushes red, but this time, he notices and stops.

While you might have thought previously that it was a good, you quickly come to realize that preternatural stillness is not a good thing in this situation.

Suddenly, his head next to yours, your face covered by his long, soft hair, he whispers, his tone alarmingly low and full of warning, “Are you trying to deny me access to your body by tightening your thighs against me, little miss?”

You do your best to encourage your legs to relax, adding lying – with depressing ease - to your list of awful firsts with him. “N- no, Sir.”

“That’s good. I wouldn’t want to have to punish you again so soon.” You can feel him grinning against your own hair. “Well, _you_ probably wouldn’t want me to, I’d wager. I could spank you all day and never grow tired of it – and perhaps, someday, I shall.”

He draws a breath. “I think I had asked you a question that you didn’t get a chance to answer.” He leans a bit away from you, so that he can look at your face, his hand still in that awful, shameful place on your person. “Eyes on me.”

You don’t want to look at him, despite that fact that he was a beautiful man – on the outside. When you were a young girl, you’d had a secret crush on Prince Loki, never imagining you’d end up like this with him.

But you have no choice. He’s right. You definitely do not want him to punish you again – ever, ever, ever – but certainly not when you’d not even begun recovering from the last time.

So you bite your lip, lift your head, and meet his gaze.

He muses softly, “How many have been here before me, hmmm? How many fumbling, nervous, ham-handed farmer boys have you let in to your cozy little quim? Did you let your husband,” he sneers the title, as if it’s distasteful to him, “get a little preview of cumming attractions some time when your Ma and Pa weren’t looking?”

Your gaze not wavering from his in the least, you shake your head back and forth vehemently. “No. No one. Never.”

He gives you a considering look. “Don’t lie to me, child. I will discover the answer for myself shortly, and you won’t like the consequences _at all_ if I find that you’ve lied to me.”

“I’m _not_ lying.”

He tilts his head. “What about necking? Hickeys? French kissing?” he asks, trying to find a term you understand, but you just look at him as if he’s spouting nonsense, never having heard those terms before. “Petting?”

You look at him, confused. “You mean, like a cat?”

He goes off around the room in gales of laughter at that – while you wonder what you’ve said that’s so funny. When he returns to you, he looks at you and says, “I knew I felt a strong innocence vibe coming from you – it’s what attracted me to you in the first place - but I had no idea just _how_ innocent. You must have been raised in a sexless bubble. I must admit that I find the idea of being your first in every possible way quite intriguing.” His voice drops to a low, threatening rumble. “Another reason to keep you with me for longer than just this one quick night.”

You’re of the opinion that this night has already lasted for centuries, but you wisely don’t mention it.

“Intimacy of any kind before marriage is wrong,” you state flatly, spouting one of the many platitudes you’ve been taught.

Loki puts his fingers over his mouth in mock consternation, but then becomes distracted, sniffing his fingertips lightly, and you realize that they’re the ones that were between your legs. Your entire body flushes hot with pure mortification as he pulls all of his fingertips together as you watch, so that he can take in an exaggeratedly large breath of nothing but your scent. You think you see his eyes roll back into his head as he leans it back on a dramatic, animalistic groan, remaining motionless and silent for a long moment.

Then his head snaps forward, and you see him shudder hard before he composes himself again, adopting an overly concerned expression before saying, “Oh, dear, then having sex with someone who’s most assuredly _not_ your husband – and on your wedding night, no less – must be a terribly, terribly sinful thing to do, is it not?” Then he purrs threateningly, with a smirking grin, “Especially since I intend to make sure you enjoy _every single_ second of it _very_ thoroughly - whether you want to or not.”


End file.
